I don’t even know where the line is between being attracted to someone because of traits they possess (which seems more or less healthy) and being attracted to someone because they belong to a certain group that either do or are perceived to possess one or more traits.
Basically, at what point does it become creepy and objectifying?
You know how some guys seem to regress to preverbal panting when confronted by a naturally redheaded woman? I wonder what it’s like to be that redhead. Is there a rush of power, knowing that she’s the brass ring for plenty of people? Is it annoying because while they’re fixating on her titian hair no one seems to be noticing her beautifully sculpted shoulders? Is it just exhausting because it’s so seldom just red hair they want, but things they associate with red hair, be it sexual dynamism, temperament, whatever the hell people tend to think they know about her before they know it. I imagine it has to be demoralizing on some level to realize that you can be someone’s perfect woman before he knows a second thing about you.
And red hair is just one example. I’ve known Asian women who’ve had a similar problem, carefully wading through fantasists to find sincere dating prospects. I’ve met people who will only fuck musicians, or rich people, or skinny people. And well-endowed women must get tired of all that eye contact their boobs get.
Where exactly does it stop being creepy and start being the normal way attraction works? I do not know. It’s hard for me to feel actual attraction for someone I haven’t gotten to know yet. Maybe if I was experienced in feeling instantaneous sexual interest I’d have a sense of that line. Or if I felt constantly fetishized I’m sure I’d have some opinions on where it is.
I suppose the one fetish/preconception trigger I sometimes feel like I’m brushing up against is the bright hair. It isn’t really the same thing, maybe, but it give me some insight. See, I like to dye my hair crazy colors most commonly seen on the heads of high schoolers and cartoon characters. I’ve been through most of the colors of the rainbow and some change. Immature, unprofessional, attention-seeking, or whatever you want to call it, it’s honestly just the way I like my hair. It looks right to me when it’s ridiculous. And maybe that does say something about me on a deeper level, but I don’t think it says much. I’m very much the same person no matter what my hair looks like.
But occasionally I’ll run into a guy who looks at me and sees a Manic Pixie Dream Girl*. He will ask me about my hair, why it’s purple or whatever, and expect an interesting response. A movie dialogue response. “It’s my natural color. I decided.” will not entirely satisfy. “I like it.” would not be valid at all because it isn’t going to blow his mind and kick off our amazing adventure that will culminate in him growing as a person.
Even getting to know me a bit, when he finds I’m silly and quirky and whimsical and creative, the illusion won’t be shattered just yet. It will take a little while to realize that instead of teaching “broodingly soulful young [him] to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures” I’m kind of just going through life as normal and trying to have a relationship (or possibly just a fling). Knowing me isn’t really opening the world up like a wacky, technicolor flower.
And then he feels resentful because I’ve lied. Not with my tongue and lips, but with my hair and playful attitude, now belied to hell by my being a real fucking person who is too busy being a protagonist in my own stuff to bother being a plot device.
I’ve just gotten tastes of that. Of course most people over four don’t really think my hair makes me magical. If they did, though, I’d have an even longer history of disappointing them.
(image source)
* I realize the link describes this stock character as “stunningly attractive”, but naturally real-life MPDGs would be held to a lower standard. These characters are usually romantic interests for main characters, and played by Hollywood actresses, so…
One of the best Valentine’s days (er, nights) I’ve ever experienced was the one where my friend Eloise and I drove through far too much snow to go to the local lesbian club.
